Nasty, Brutish, and Short
by Carnivorous Moogle
Summary: Nasty, brutish, and short, thinks Numbers. Take advantage of it while you can.


**For meredithdraper on tumblr, who has done the lord's work in this fandom.**

* * *

They really should be packing, thinks Numbers, as long fingers grip his waist and a knee presses between his legs and Wrench kisses his neck, hungry, open-mouthed. They should be packing and settling down to sleep, because they've got a long way to drive in the morning, and being confined to the same cramped space for hours on end is bad enough when they're _not_ both sleep-deprived.

But they're not packing, and they're not asleep, because this is more important.

After the job where they ended up tied back to back, surrounded by goons with sharp objects and sharper smiles, and made it out by luck and quick thinking and the skin of their teeth, there's been an unspoken agreement. An assignment comes, and they make their preparations; and then, every time, this.

However tired or pissed or unprepared, they've made it a habit, a ritual, a good-luck charm; and every time, they've come back safely, and every time they've known they might not have, and every time they've known they'll do it all over again before the next assignment.

Nasty, brutish, and short, thinks Numbers. He muffles a groan when Wrench nips gently at his jugular. Take advantage of it while you can.

Without warning, Wrench gooses him, and he lets out a yelp (and a breathless laugh, in spite of himself). He hears the low chuff that is Wrench's laughter, and hot breath billows across his collarbone.

Speaking of taking advantage, he thinks. He retaliates by pressing Wrench backwards, in the direction of the couch. Wrench allows himself to be guided, and carefully leans back until he's sitting sprawled across the ratty cushions.

Numbers crouches between his legs, sideways on the couch, one foot tucked under him and the other balancing his weight against the edge of the coffee table. Their clothes are long gone, tossed willy-nilly around the motel room; Wrench watches with hooded eyes and an intensity that still, after all these years, makes Numbers want to squirm.

Numbers decides to play with him a little. _What are you looking at?_ he signs, and strokes Wrench's cock from head to base, just barely, feather-light. _Something on my face?_

Now it's Wrench's turn to squirm. He still manages to work up some sass, even though he's shaking a little and every muscle in his body is tense. _Not sure,_ he signs. _Someone's probably looking for their pet muskrat right about now._

Numbers rolls his eyes. Instead of replying, he squeezes, circling his thumb over the head agonizingly slowly, then once or twice quickly, and then slowly again. Wrench's mouth falls open, and he groans, long and low. _Come on already,_ he signs, his normally rock-steady fingers trembling.

Numbers presses with his thumb, thoughtfully, and then lets up. Wrench gasps, his breath hitching. _Please,_ he signs, _just-_

That's as far as he gets before Numbers leans over, takes him into his mouth, and drags his tongue across the head, hard. Wrench makes a beautiful, strangled sound, smacking his open palm into the back of the sofa, his jaw twitching.

Numbers, watching, feels lightning shoot through his belly, and responds by taking in more, slowly, slowly, exploring every inch of sensitive flesh before moving on. When he gets as far as he can-pretty far, considering how long they've been doing this-he starts his way back up, inch by inch, and then back down again when he reaches the top.

Wrench is moaning in earnest, now, the uninhibited sounds of someone who can't hear himself, and doesn't know the meaning of the word _self-conscious_ even if he could. His hands are stuttering, switching between trying to sign and holding on for dear life. _Numbers,_ he makes out, and _please,_over and over, and then the sign for his own name, his real name, which they never use in the presence of anyone else.

Numbers is breathing heavily now; he's starting to feel light-headed with need, and the room's colors swirl bright, and Wrench is crying out, keening, so close-

-and then his back arches and his legs wrap around Numbers' waist hard enough to make him wheeze a little, and then he lies boneless against the armrest of the couch, panting, blue eyes shining.

Numbers sits up and wipes his mouth, and signs, _Good?_

Wrench grins, that damn smirk that never fails to make his mouth go dry. _Friendliest muskrat I've ever met,_ he signs, still a bit unsteadily.

Numbers huffs, exasperated, and starts to sign _god dammit,_ when suddenly the tables are turned and he's the one on his back, pressed against the sofa.

_My turn,_ signs Wrench, straddling his thighs, his grin positively devious. Numbers swallows, hard, and lets out a shuddering breath.

Wrench reaches for the little bottle they keep close by, slicks up his hand, and dribbles cold wetness onto Numbers' entrance. _Ready?_ he asks, his fingers shiny with lube.

Numbers nods, a bit too quickly. _Ready._

And then there is a long, graceful, _articulate_ finger inside him, and it feels strange, just like it always does, but he knows what's coming, and he's patient.

Wrench moves in and out of him gently, carefully, eyes never leaving his face; just like he always does.

In a minute or two, Numbers nods again, and the first finger is joined by a second, twisting and turning and stretching and hot, hot, searing hot, why is Wrench always so _hot?_

Things continue this way for a while, he's not sure how long: slowly building pleasure, an enjoyable burn that fades as they go, even after the third finger. Numbers is shifting and rocking, humming deep in his throat, when suddenly Wrench crooks his fingers at an angle and god fucking christ, he is gone.

As he groans and tries to push himself further onto Wrench's fingers, he feels his partner's unoccupied hand signing against his skin between strokes of his cock.

_I love you,_ it says, as he shivers and moans and hisses curses. _I love you. I don't know where I'd be without you. I don't know_ who _I'd be without you._ Numbers' name again, his real name. _I love you._

And then white-hot pleasure blanks his vision around the edges, leaving Wrench's face imprinted on his eyelids, and if he screams he doesn't hear it.

He wonders, sometimes, if this is what Wrench feels like when he comes.

They lie there for a moment, while Numbers catches his breath.

_You'd be you,_ he signs, eventually. _And you'd still have a weird o-face._

Wrench chuffs again, and smacks him playfully on the shoulder. _Get some sleep, we've got driving to do in the morning._ He tucks his face into the crook of Numbers' neck, and within ninety seconds his breathing has slowed and evened out into sleep.

Numbers stares at the ceiling for a long time, Wrench's sweaty copper hair and stubble tickling the side of his face.

_I love you,_ he signs, haltingly, even though Wrench is asleep (or maybe because of it). _Good night._

And then, satisfied that he's said the right words, he falls asleep. He dreams of darkness, and warmth like a furnace, and bright, bright eyes that laugh for him and him alone.


End file.
